


Rimming

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rimming, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:31:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>Brian teaches Justin the art of rimming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rimming

**Author's Note:**

> Brian claims to have taught Justin everything Justin knows. Alas, we are left to merely imagine the details. This is a story in the [Everything He Knows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/880530) collection of stand-alone stories. The gorgeous banner was made by Urugwaj.

RIMMING

“So,” Brian says. “What do you want to do?”

He’s got his arms wrapped around me, walking me backward towards the bed. By now I’ve figured out that he doesn’t mean “what do you want to do” as in actually _do_ , like as in go to the diner or Woody’s or Babylon. What he means is: what do you want to do in bed?

It seems like a simple question that I should be able to answer without having to think too much about it – especially since if you can name it, I’ll do it. I’ve let him do all kinds of things and never once regretted it, although some things I like better than others. But when he actually _asks_ , I’m too afraid to answer him honestly because the one thing I really _really_ want is not even on the menu.

I want his asshole.

There I said it (though not to him, of course). I want to see what it looks like, what it tastes like, what he’ll do when I touch it. I want it so badly it brings back that English class in which we discussed “The Great Gatsby.” The teacher had asked what “yearning” means and I answered that it was “wanting something really badly, so bad that it hurts.” Well, if that’s the correct definition (and Mr. Horner said it was), then it’s true to say I “yearn” for Brian’s asshole.

But Brian doesn’t seem to want to share that part of his anatomy, which is weird ‘coz he does all kinds of things to _my_ asshole that feel fucking _amazing_. There’s a little thing up in there that, when he touches it, makes my eyes roll back in my head and my dick leak all over the place. So what’s not to like? If he knows it’ll make me feel good, then he must know it would make him feel good too. It makes no sense. What’s the big deal? He likes my asshole; why wouldn’t I like his?

“Don’t you _dare_ touch my asshole,” he said the second night we fucked despite the fact he'd said "go to it" just forty-eight hours ago. I was sucking his dick (no doubt inexpertly) and reached a finger back behind his balls. I was _so_ close, but then he sat up, grabbed my hand and pulled it out from between his thighs. I wanted to ask him why, but back then I’d been too afraid.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , I could find the courage now. After all, he asked me what I want, and I want his asshole. I only need to figure out how to broach the subject . . .

I collapse on the bed, and he grips my wrists and pins my hands above my head.

“I’m waiting,” he says.

His eyes are full of pupil, which I learned on the internet when I Googled “male sexual response” means he’s aroused. Same goes for his flushed chest. He’s horny, which means he’s also impatient. We’re staring at each other. He must see something in my expression that makes him wary because he narrows his eyes and repeats himself.

“I’m waiting.”

 _Come on_ , I admonish myself. _What’s the worst he can do? He certainly won’t throw me out; he’s too far gone for that. The worst that can happen is he’ll snap at me and roll me over. And that’s hardly punishment._

“Uhm,” I say.

He arches his eyebrows.

“Uhm?”

I clear my throat. “Uhm, well, I kinda wanted, if it’s okay, I mean, I kinda wanted to do something . . .”

His expression changes from mere impatience to amused impatience.

“Well, spit it out,” he says.

I take a deep _deep_ breath. “Uhm, I want to, I mean if it’s okay, I want to, uhm, you know.”

He laughs.

“Actually, I don’t know. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but whatever it is, hurry the fuck up or the invitation’s off the table.”

I wince. “Iwannarimyou,” I say in a rush of breath.

He looks genuinely puzzled. “You want to _what_? Sunshine, I didn’t understand whatever the fuck it was you just said.”

I groan with frustration. Shit. I was going to have to say it again.

“I said . . . I said I want to, uhm, rim you.”

Silence. Just pure silence. Where are the crickets when you need them?

“You want to rim me,” he repeats in a flat, disbelieving voice. “I thought I told you . . .”

“You did, but that was ages ago; I thought that maybe you might’ve changed . . .”

“My mind?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He releases my wrists and sits up, still straddling my hips. I quickly glance at his cock to make sure it’s still hard. It is.

“You don’t even know how to rim,” he says.

“I can do what you do to me,” I say hopefully. He hasn’t given me a flat-out no. “How hard can it be?”

He does that annoying thing where he barks out a little sarcastic laugh and then lets his expression go emotionless again.

“How hard can it be?” he asks disbelievingly. “I’ve spent _years_ perfecting my technique.”

I sigh. He may not be losing his hard-on, but I’m losing mine. I resort to begging.

“ _Please_ , Brian, come on. What’s the big deal?”

“The ‘big deal’ is that I’m the only one to touch my asshole. That’s the ‘big deal.’”

I frown up at him. “You mean you rim yourself?”

That does the trick. He starts laughing, and it’s a real laugh this time. I give him my brightest, sunshiniest smile.

“Fuck,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Wouldn’t you rather have me rim _you_?”

I shake my head emphatically. 

He closes his eyes and sighs in sweet, merciful defeat. I smile even wider. I will not disappoint him.

Without another word, he dismounts and positions himself front-down on the bed. I stare at his back and its flawless skin, every well-defined muscle. There’s something about seeing him this way, lying on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow – something that makes me . . . I don’t know. It’s impossible to describe. It’s just that he seems even more naked this way, if that makes sense, which I’m sure it doesn’t.

I trace his spine with a finger, pausing at the tailbone. This is the moment when I should be able to position myself between his legs, but he hasn’t spread them. Shit. Is he going to make me pry them apart like the shell of a particularly stubborn oyster, because wow. That would be fucking awkward as hell.

I crawl down to the end of the bed and place my hands on the backs of his thighs, and he immediately clenches his ass cheeks. I roll my eyes. It’s like I’m dealing with a bashful virgin and not Brian Kinney, of all people. I try to spread his legs, and eventually he surrenders. I quickly move between them before he can close them again and lie down.

My face is mere inches from the crack of his ass.

I start to sweat. I don’t want to fuck up. If I do, there might never be a second chance. Christ, I feel like a fucking archeologist looking for a rare, one-of-a-kind fossil. My hands are shaking. He must feel them because he laughs into his pillow, which I consider to be a good sign. I position my hands so that my thumbs can spread him open . . .

. . . and there it is. The focus of all my curiosity and desire. It’s impossibly cute – small and puckered and, dare I say, shy? I almost say it: “Brian, your asshole is adorable,” but figure that’s probably a very bad idea. I’m pretty sure “adorable” is not an adjective he would like applied to any part of his body, let alone his asshole.

“Will you stop fucking staring?” he snaps.

Right. That’s a good idea, but what should I do? Now that I’m here, the next step isn’t obvious. Do I try to pry it open? It dosen’t look like it would appreciate it at all. I decide to proceed cautiously and just blow on it. It gets even smaller.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “You don’t fucking blow on it till you’ve got it wet. Blowing on it dry is pointless and weird.”

I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. He has no idea how inadvertently hilarious he can be. Okay, good. Now I have something of a roadmap. I make my tongue as pointy as I can and tentatively poke it at the almost-invisible hole.

Brian jumps out of his skin.

“Goddamn it, Justin,” he yells. “Just stick your whole face in there and fucking _lick_. Think lollypop or ice cream cone. It’s not _that_ difficult, for Christ sake!”

Fine. He asked for it.

I quickly spread his cheeks as far as I can and bury my face between them. Forget the poking and gentle licking, I fucking slobber all over him until there’s spit covering his balls. He lets out a ragged groan and grinds his ass against my face. It’s a miracle I’m not suffocating. He’s open now; I can get my tongue inside.

“Fuck,” he groans into his pillow.

I can’t get my tongue as deep as I want to. After all it’s not a finger. Damn it! Why can’t my tongue have a bone in it?

“Bite me,” he demands from somewhere up above me. “It’s called eating ass for a reason.”

I do my best to get my mouth where it needs to go; it takes a minute, but thank God he doesn’t seem to mind. When I finally get my teeth where they need to go, I nibble gently. I’m pretty sure when Brian said “bite me” that he wasn’t being literal. Nibbling seems like a much more pleasurable experience . . .

. . . and apparently it is because Brian Kinney loses his fucking mind. His whole body convulses, and the sounds he’s making are completely undignified.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps. “Jesus Christ. Fuck fuck _fuck_!”

He reaches back blindly and grabs one of my wrists. “Finger,” he says. “Use your fucking finger! Put it in me!”

It’s awkward because I can’t fuck him with my finger and still keep his ass spread, but the problem’s solved when he reaches back with both hands and opens himself wider than even I’d been able to. I draw back for a second to catch my breath and wet a finger in my mouth . . . God, there it is again except now it’s swollen and shiny with spit. Every now and then, it pulses open, and each time, he groans helplessly.

I’m going to come.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he says. “You’re not coming until I do. There’s no way I’ll let you continue if you’re not horny as hell.”

He chuckles when I whimper and then says “finger!” again as though he’s yelling at a bar tender for another beer. I don’t hesitate to comply . . .

. . . God, now I know why he can’t keep his fingers out of my ass. He’s so slick and hot on the inside, and so smooth. I start fingering him slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then slowly slipping it back in as deep as I can go. The pace must be too slow because Brian starts pushing back against my hand, showing me how he wants me to do it. Instead of almost letting my finger slip free, he forces me to fuck him deeply.

“That bump,” he says, panting for breath. “Press against it.”

It takes a couple seconds, but at last I find it. I know because his whole body jerks and he cries out, his voice breaking.

“Stop,” he gasps. “Stop. I’m going to roll over and you’re going to suck my cock and fuck me while you do it.”

Okay. Nothing like being direct. No one can accuse Brian of not expressing himself when the situation demands it. He rolls onto his back and places his hand on the back of my head. I take a deep breath because I know what comes next.

“Take it,” he groans. “Swallow every inch; I’m going to come down your throat.”

And that’s all the warning I get before he pushes my head down.

The first time he’d done it it scared the shit out of me. I thought I’d choke. But now I’m used to it – more than used to it, actually. I fucking _crave_ it. I crave the way it makes me master of his body, forcing him to surrender to what nature – or God if you believe in Him – designed.

“Fuck me,” he begs. “Jesus, I need you to _fuck_ me.”

So I do. I fuck him as deep as I can, making sure my fingertip never strays from that magic bump. He makes a sound that might be a sob. Too soon his back is arching off the bed and his come is pulsing down my throat. At the same time, I feel his asshole clench my finger and spasm in time with his spurts.

“Finger _out_!” he barks as soon as his body stops shuddering. “ _Now_.”

I’d laugh except I need him to make me come. He’d probably punish me by making me jerk-off, and I don’t want that. I want him to suck me the way I’d sucked him, and, yes, I want his finger inside me rubbing and rubbing and . . .

“Roll over and spread your legs,” he commands.

I’ve barely been in his mouth for a second before I explode. He groans around my dick. My eyes are still squeezed shut when he releases me and sits up. When I can finally open them and focus on his face, I can see that he’s wearing a serious, solemn expression.

“Don’t grow to expect that,” he says.

I sigh. Was I _that_ bad at it?

“But why not?” I don’t bother to disguise the frustration in my voice.

He stares down at me for a long, long time. I can tell he’s struggling with whether or not to say something, and if he decides to say it, whether he’ll say it kindly or cruelly.

“It . . .” He pauses and runs his fingers through his hair. He’s not looking at me when he continues. “It . . . It’s too much which makes nothing enough. Even coming doesn’t make the feeling go away. I like it too much, and I don’t want to be . . . I don’t want to be . . .”

I think I know what he’s going to say and decide not to force him to say it. He doesn’t want to be “a bottom.” For some reason I don’t yet understand, the idea rocks his world and not in a good way.

“Got it,” I say and smile up at him.

He breaks into his own smile – a smile of relief.

“But you have to tell me,” I say. “How was I?”

He blushes – he actually _blushes_.

“You were alright,” he says and that’s it. That’s all I’m going to get, and considering where we went together night, it’s enough.


End file.
